“How long have you been doing this sort of thing?” I asked from my seat in one of the workbench chairs as Caylus sifted through a pile of papers.

“All my life,” he said.

“Ever sold anything?”

He paused, his scarred fingers curling around the edge of the stack of papers he held. “Some.”

“Ever answer a question in more than three words?”

“Only during high tides.”

I blinked, and he smiled over his shoulder at me. I really had to get used to his deadpan delivery. “Funny. You’re funny.”

He found the paper he was looking for and returned to the chair beside me. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“I like to know stuff.”

“So do I, though I usually ask books.” He patted a nearby stack. “They’re more reliable.”

“But not as fun.”

“Less liable to get annoyed.”

“More liable to get chucked at you when someone does get annoyed.”

“You sound like you speak from experience,” he said.

“Books are very underrated weapons.”

He laughed, the sound rich as molten chocolate. It pulled a grin across my lips and brought a flush to my cheeks that felt strange and unfamiliar but pleasant.

He smiled faintly, his eyes bright as spring leaves. “You’d have gotten along with my little sister.”

“Does she live in Seahalla?”

His smile faded, his expression clouding. When he didn’t answer, I started to ask but clamped my mouth shut when I caught the look in Caylus’s eyes. The same look that always seemed to be there, only ten times darker: pain.

“You support the rebels,” I said quietly, “but you aren’t one. Why?”

His hands closed into massive fists in his lap. “I’m…tired of fighting.”

My eyes flickered to his scarred hands as I remembered the way he’d dislodged Ericen’s grip on me with ease. I’d thought he was a street fighter or a soldier. Maybe he had been, once. I didn’t ask, smothering the urge to run my fingers along the lines of his scars like I had so often done my own, as if it might help me understand them.

We spent the next hour waiting for a mixture to brew, during which Caylus made tea. A light rain tapped against the window as he delivered a cup of steaming bergamot tea to the only clear space on a workbench beside me, a fresh scone beside it.

Hours later, the only thing we’d learned was the shell seemed to have an affinity for iron. It stuck to the slippery surface like tree sap, and I couldn’t be sure, but the humming seemed slightly stronger.

“This isn’t working,” I said at last. My eyes were tired, and my hand cramped from writing.

Caylus sat back. “It isn’t working yet. We’ll try again tomorrow.”